


The Counterfeit Courtship

by layersofsilence



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fandom Trumps Hate, M/M, Vampires, because i am fully that asshole, my best attempt at victorian narration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22051321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layersofsilence/pseuds/layersofsilence
Summary: It was said by the best people in Society that good confectionary had the capacity to solve all of one’s problems. For all that Steven Rogers had a long and storied history of vehement opposition to Society, on this count he had found himself in reluctant accordance with its mores; so much so, indeed, that upon reuniting with a rather older and more vampiric friend it was the consumption of baked goods - soaked through with blood, naturally - which he’d recommended as the most curative activity he knew of.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	The Counterfeit Courtship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).



> sliding right in under the wire with my fandom trumps hate fics ^^" this one was written for the various prompts of vampire, victorian, bakery, and fake dating, and i had such a fun time cramming it all together! much credit and thanks to my wonderfully patient bidder Kali and also to max beerbohm, whose delightful book [zuleika dobson](www.gutenberg.org/files/1845/1845-h/1845-h.htm) i read and reread when i wanted to kick my brain into old language mode

The chiming of church bells rang through the street, tolling an unnecessary accompaniment to the end of an ordinary evening. Even the muffling effect of the evening’s gentle rainfall was not enough to keep the strikes from shaking through the foundation of _Barnes’ Bakery_ \- a relatively new establishment somewhat plagued by its unfortunate location three blocks away from a small church which, as though to make up for its deficiencies in size, vigilantly rang its bells every quarter of an hour. After the eleventh strike came blessed silence, at least for another fifteen minutes, and Bucky roused himself before the quarter-past chimes could take another crack at him; eleven o’clock was the start of a baker’s day, and he had no intention of being late to the kitchen.

It was said by the best people in Society that good confectionary had the capacity to solve all of one’s problems. For all that Steven Rogers had a long and storied history of vehement opposition to Society, on this count he had found himself in reluctant accordance with its mores; so much so, indeed, that upon reuniting with a rather older and more vampiric friend it was the consumption of baked goods - soaked through with blood, naturally - which he’d recommended as the most curative activity he knew of. It had felt only natural that, in the years following, baking had risen to become Bucky’s hobby and, eventually, his occupation, when Steven had pronounced his skills excellent and used the not-inconsiderable fortune he had hoarded over the decades to open a bakery. It had not taken long for the triumphant result of his reckless impulsivity to gain some status among the local residents, and five years later - not long at all, and yet much longer than Bucky had expected - it still opened proudly each day, the round rising smell of baking sunk deep into every part of the building: each plank of wood, each flake of paint on the walls.

On this night as on all others, the act of baking was a calming one: measuring and mixing, macerating and marinating. Bucky went through the familiar motions and allowed himself to be subsumed by the comfortable routine; when he next looked up, his doughs had been prepared and all that was left to him to do was leave them alone for several hours. It was at this point that he took somewhat concerned note of Steven’s absence; although Bucky’s penchant for baking and general misanthropy meant that Steven was the one stationed behind the counter, and so he could conceivably remain outdoors all night should he so wish, it was certainly unusual of him to take advantage of the fact.

It was a mystery Bucky did not long have to wait for a solution to: no sooner had he busied himself with a new scone recipe than a slight disturbance reached his ears, and this proved to be the only warning he received before the door burst open and Steve appeared, thoroughly dishevelled and quite in a panic. Bucky had not even managed to lay down his mixing spoon before Steven spoke again.

“Bucky,” he said, quite seriously, “can I court you?”

It was not often that a vampire who had lived as long as Bucky had could be shocked into silence. This deceptively simple sequence of words, however, managed the feat, and well. For several long, awkward moments, it was all Bucky could do to stare at his friend; even the usual expressions of astonishment seemed to have deserted him.

Steve took a large, unnecessary breath, and then seemed to realise the utter absurdity of his words, or at least the effect they had had on Bucky; he started sheepishly, and procured a letter from some unknown place on his personage.

“It’s my mother,” he said, as though this would illuminate matters. It did not. All that Bucky knew about Sarah Rogers was that he’d liked her, in the deep past, that Steven’s first act as a new, confused vampire had been to offer his mother the bite, because he adored her, and that after some decades together she had struck out to explore the world on her own.

“Her last letters placed her in the Arctic,” Bucky said, for in times of great astonishment he had found that the recital of simple facts held some small comfort for him. Steven, for his part, nodded approvingly.

“Well, she found it less exciting than she’d hoped,” said he, as though this was a normal line for a conversation which had started so outrageously. “And so she thought she might visit us. Only for a few weeks,” he hastened to add, as though this was the confusing part of the conversation. It was not.

“I don’t see -”

“I love my mother,” said Steven resolutely, in a manner which very much suggested the forthcoming qualification, “but recently she has been insufferable.”

“She’s been in the Arctic,” repeated Bucky.

“Well, yes,” Steven admitted. “But before that, she spent several decades attempting to match me up with every eligible young person in Philadelphia - and some rather distinctly ineligible persons, too.”

“It can’t have worked very well,” Bucky observed, since this was another fact he felt he could state with some reliability.

“And I have every intention of continuing on that way,” said Steven. “Only, New York has so many more eligible persons than Philadelphia.”

“Ah,” said Bucky, upon whom this complex plan was beginning to dawn. If his heart could still beat, he was sure it would be doing so in double-time at the present moment. “And you wish to avoid being made a match of.”

“Precisely,” Steven said. “So I thought - I hoped -”

“Of course,” Bucky said, not a little impulsively. He was not usually one to do things so impetuously, but on occasion, he thought, one could not help but be influenced by one’s friends. Steven’s relieved smile positively shone through the small room, lighting it up from the inside out; Bucky was quite sure that it was made of sunshine. “I wish you had said so from the beginning. Will you send her word?”

“You know I can’t think when I’m under stress,” said Steven, but the words were warm and fond and not too serious. Bucky rolled his eyes as a matter of public performance, and then felt rather safe enough to turn back to his poor neglected scones. “And no - she wrote that she would be making her way down to us, and no letter would find her faster than she would find us.” The two of them considered this for some time, though it was not entirely useful as a measure to predict Sarah Rogers’ time of arrival, and then Steven seemed to shake himself out of his reverie. “Thank you, Buck. Do you want some help?”

Bucky considered the offer, and then shook his head. Steve nodded back, understanding. “Do you think you can do it?” Bucky asked. The smile Steven gave him was a little strained, but undeniably present.

“I think I will prevail. She only plans to be here briefly, in any case; a few weeks, she says. I thought I might clear out one of our rooms so that she can use it - and give a general impression of how close we are.”

“Mine,” Bucky said at once. “It’s the nicer of the two.” This was indisputably true: Steven had insisted upon the arrangement. He nodded now, and bounded upstairs to get started. Barely a moment later some rather alarming scraping echoed through the ceiling, but Bucky knew not to be concerned; the sudden absence of Steve felt abruptly like a void - one into which common sense, as an unwelcome stream, came rushing to fill. For the second time in the night, Bucky put down his poor scone mixture to press the heels of his hands self-pityingly into his eyes. This did not help him in any quantifiable way; but neither did it make anything worse, which seemed a small triumph.

For the past ten years - ever since their rather dramatic reunion, in which Steve had broken the thrall that Bucky’s own coven had kept him under - he had successfully managed to suppress, to strangulate, any thoughts impudent enough to dare include an element past the platonic. Steven had shown him nothing but kindness: in taking him in from a period of horror and enthrallment, in having faith in the possibilities of recovery, in taking such pains to provide for him a safe, quiet space in which to do the aforementioned recovering. In the face of such aggressive kindness and relentless optimism Bucky had long since resigned himself to the unpleasant yearnings of the heart, the necessity of monitoring his thoughts and his hopes. He had long since decided that it was but a matter of basic courtesy to avoid throwing oneself at one’s friend; unable to prevent his own thoughts entirely, he had found some success in staunchly reactive measures, and grown quite adroit at reminding himself to maintain a strict status quo.

And now he was being asked to adjust those those measures - falsely, it was true, but nevertheless - and the uncomfortable truth of the matter was that a counterfeit courtship seemed, away from Steven’s smile and his exuberance and his relief, a rather dangerous plan.

The worst part was that, for all his misgivings, Bucky still found himself loath to disappoint his friend - particularly for reasons that he would necessarily be unable to divulge. Despite the danger, he had every intention of forging onwards and making the best of things. Surely he would be able to survive for a handful of weeks; the alternative did not bear thinking about. Grimly, he bolstered his resolve, and then proceeded into the back room in search of dough to pummel. The many loud, unpleasant noises of a hasty redecorating served as a fitting accompaniment to the release of his frustrations.

~*~

Steven’s first words of the new day were, “Don’t go up,” uttered as he descended the stairs with a grimace on his face. “I’m still redecorating. It’s a mess.” It had been all quiet from above for the past few hours, but Bucky had known better than to expect Steven would be done any time soon; he had an artist’s eye and fussy temperament.

“So I assumed,” said Bucky mildly. “I assumed I would be working behind the counter today, too.”

The look that Steve shot him was surprised and then guiltily relieved; he made some small attempt at protest, but neither of them could contest that time was of the essence; the letter had been sent almost a week ago and Sarah Rogers might arrive on its heels at any time. He took only enough time to refill the baskets of bread behind the shop and help Bucky open the store before retreating upstairs once again.

“Thank you for doing this,” Steven said as he departed, so fervently that there could be no doubt that he meant it. The next time that Bucky saw him was almost at closing time, after night had fallen.

“I’m almost afraid to go up,” Bucky said, when Steven gestured for him to do just that.

“Don’t be,” Steven said, cheerful in a manner which did not at all alleviate Bucky’s fears. “You’ll like it. At least, I very much hope you will. Go on,” he added, when Bucky failed to entirely hide his scepticism. “Go look. I can handle the shop.”

“I wasn’t afraid of that,” Bucky muttered, but went obediently; better to have the thing over with quickly, he thought. He ignored the tight, balled-up feeling behind his breastbone which, if he deigned to acknowledge it, he might label anxiety, or trepidation. He studiously took no note when it loosened at the familiar sight of the living room: it was slightly cleaner, perhaps otherwise remained unchanged, with the armchairs in the same places, the same pictures on the wall, the same books piled high on the tables, the same nice china irreverently being used as holders for various and sundry small objects.

One of the many changes which vampirism wrought was a profoundly lessened need to sleep: indeed, the amount of time one spent unconscious became increasingly contingent upon one’s diet, and it was not unheard of for vampires who had chosen to subsist solely on blood to remain active without sleep for weeks at a time. Since Steven preferred not to drink from humans and Bucky felt rather too ashamed to do so after the events of his past, the two of them subsisted from a local blood supply which was only able to act as supplement to a diet which consisted mainly of human foods. In so doing, of course, they resigned themselves to longer periods of necessary repose; every few days, rather than weeks.

All of which was to say, then, that the two small bedrooms tucked into the back of the house did see some use, both as a place to store what they could not find places for in the living room but also as a place of rest. Steven heartily encouraged the decoration and personalisation of rooms; it was still a shock, then, though not an unexpected one, to be suddenly confronted by the sight of it stripped bare. His walls were bare; his books were gone; the shelves were oddly clean and gleaming; the bed had been made up with new sheets.

The new arrangement served two purposes, he knew: the first, and most obvious, was that Sarah Rogers would now have a place to rest as necessary; the second was that Bucky’s things would necessarily have been moved into Steven’s room, and firmly established an image of the two of them as a courting pair.

Though he knew - somewhat - and was ostensibly prepared for what awaited him, Bucky moved rather hesitantly towards Steven’s room. There was only so much hallway in which to drag his feet, however, and soon the open doorway had invited him too far in to turn back.

If Bucky’s room had been transformed into the perfect, blank guest room, this room was a strange melding of their two personalities: Steven knew him well enough to know exactly which books should be given pride on place on a now-shared bookshelf, to know where his belongings should be placed, and he had used that artist’s eye to make it look _good_ , to make it look natural. As though the two of them had been sharing this room for years, the way that they had been sharing the living room for years.

The heart which no longer beat in Bucky’s chest gave a painful twinge, at the sight. He told himself that he didn’t know what had caused it, but even as the sentiment echoed through his mind he knew it was a lie. The sight of their belongings so together - the implications of that single bed - it stirred a storm through his chest and sent alarmed raindrops pattering through his limbs.

If he were alone, truly alone, with nobody else for miles who might catch the slightest slip of face or voice on his part, he might tentatively label the causative emotion as wistfulness; but, all too aware of Steven’s presence a mere flight of stairs away, he gritted his teeth and attempted to direct his thoughts elsewhere.

_You’ll like it_ , he heard Steven saying, as though from over his shoulder.

That was the problem, Bucky replied silently. He did like it. Perhaps he liked it too much; he clamped down on the thought immediately. He could never say such a thing to his friend. Alarm coursed through him again, perhaps a little more subdued but still very much present. If he was already in such turmoil -

He shook his head, somewhat clearing his thoughts. Now was the time for turmoil; now, before Sarah Rogers appeared to muddle everything further or, worse, to scrutinise him and see all the falsehoods he was now party to spelled out across his skin, or above his head in words of fire. He stared through the room, carefully cataloguing each item in its new place. Upon completing this task he took a step further - both literally and metaphorically - and went inside the room, wandered between the furniture and touched the arrangements. Some time in between the door and he far wall he abruptly realised that he was breathing: his chest expanding and contracting in regular intervals. Neither he nor Steven had had any cause to breathe in over a hundred years, but something about the smooth, mechanical movement remained calming.

Slowly, in increments, Bucky’s mind grew calmer. He began to regard the room as an old friend; as though he had known it, and lived in it, for much longer than the span of an afternoon. When he reached the far wall and ran his fingers over the gas lamp in the corner, it was as though an agreement had been sealed. Bucky turned with half a smile on his lips, and was unsurprised to see Steven standing in the doorway, a small box in his arms..

“Well?”

“You were right,” Bucky admitted freely; the statement was true, but if he had been forcing himself to lie the effort would still have been worth it for the relieved smile that sprang up on Steven’s face. “It’s nice.”

“It ought to be,” said Steven, and though his tone was begrudging his face remained pleased. “With all the time I spent on it.” Then, as though Bucky had not suffered enough, he opened the box in his hands and held out the ornate pin contained inside, saying, “A courting token for Mother. And a thank-you gift for you.” He seemed unperturbed when when Bucky could not find the words nor the actions to respond to this, and remained so when Bucky reached out for the gift with hands that were not quite steady.

“It’s lovely,” Bucky said, because it was. “But I haven’t - I didn’t think to -”

Steven waved his words and their attendant concerns away. “I shall simply tell Mother that the nice crockery was your gift. It won’t even be such a lie - you did buy it, you know.” He waved his hands again when Bucky opened his mouth to protest, and made some excuse about having to return downstairs. Bucky was not entirely convinced that this was not a convenient fabrication, but the result was the same whether the statement was a lie or not: he stood alone in what has been transformed into their shared room, feeling distinctly off-balance. If his heart could still beat he was sure it would be hammering in double time.

The breast pin seemed distinctly heavier than it ought to, more weighty. If Bucky had felt a storm within him previously then it was a hurricane which was provoked by the the act of fastening the pin to his shirt. Once it was secure, moreover, he found himself loath to relinquish it; his fingers kept returning to stroke the thing as though of their own volition. He knew - he _knew_ \- that the gesture was devoid of the meaning it seemed to carry, and yet some less sensible part of him insisted on deriving deep satisfaction from the presence of the pin on his shirt.

Sarah Rogers’ visit would only be a short one, he told himself. He could survive for that long. It was, already, a desperate refrain that even he did not quite believe.

~*~

Long before either of them had conceived of opening a formal bakery, Steven and Bucky had gotten into the habit of giving away the results of Bucky’s slightly overzealous culinary exploits; it had ostensibly been a business venture, but it hadn’t been long at all before they did away with the pretense that it was making them any profit, and now they kept up the habit when they could. Sarah Rogers reached the bakery during such a time, only a few mornings after her letter had made a similar arrival. Her knock rang through the shop while the skies were still grey, imperious enough that Bucky thought initially that she was some irate customer who paid no heed to matters as slight as time or indeed to the sun itself, and went around terrorising innocent shops in the pre-dawn hours.

He only had faulty, unclear human memories of Sarah Rogers, distorted further by the long passage of time and the childhood eyes which had been all he possessed when he knew her. She was on the outskirts of some of his fondest memories - but, preoccupied with Steven as he had been even then, he was ashamed to admit that he had not acquainted himself with her as well as he could have.

Even if he hadn’t remembered her at all, however, Bucky thought that he would know her face anywhere, would know her relation to Steven if she was in the midst of a rushing crowd. She had so many of the same features: the same bright blue eyes, the same cornflower-yellow hair, the same delicate limbs and appendages. But it was the set of her face which truly marked her out as Steve’s mother: the stubborn set of her jaw and the delicate crescent-shaped wrinkle which had formed between her eyebrows as she stared through the window in the door.

That face softened when he opened the door, when she looked at him. “James,” she said, warm. “I nearly didn’t believe it when Steven wrote me that he’d found you. I’m very glad he did.” The handbag that she was carrying made quite a noise as she put it down to embrace him.

“Me too,” said Bucky from between her arms, utterly truthful. The phantom of his past floated between them for a moment, all the things he’d been forced to do while his own coven had kept him enthralled, but with a smile and a shake of her head Sarah Rogers put the subject aside. Bucky was grateful for it, and did the same. They shifted to a perfectly cordial conversation about her journey, which led quite naturally to a quick relocation into the kitchen so that Bucky could offer her a blood-soaked breakfast.

He found no convenient time to insert into the conversation the tidbit that he was now courting and being courted by her son; perhaps there was no such time, or perhaps Steven would want to do such a thing himself? Even when her eyes caught on his breast pin and she offered a sweet compliment towards it he found himself torn on whether to tell her it was a courting gift; his hesitation decided for him, time whiling steadily away as he cooked, and the moment passed. It was only when they were eating that Sarah got around to asking after her son - and, with an excellent sense of dramatic timing, Steven chose that moment to duck inside through the back door.

“There he is,” said Bucky at once, somewhat relieved at his appearance.

“Bucky,” Steven said as he made his way into the kitchen, “I was just thinking - Mother!”

“How funny,” said Bucky, “I was thinking the same thing.”

Steven ignored him, going to greet his mother with all the filial piety one might expect of a hundred-year-old son to his mother. “I didn’t know you were arriving today.”

“Neither did I when I sent that letter. The ship made good time.” Sarah pushed her plate of pancakes towards Steven, and then - Bucky swore it was on purpose - waited until he had taken his first bite before saying. “I brought you a gift.”

Steven, mouth full, was only able to raise an eyebrow and murmur some noise from between his teeth which managed to be both curious and self-deprecating as Sarah dug through her bag. To Bucky’s astonishment, most of its weight seemed to be attributed to a single item: a book, thick and large, with fine bindings and a metal clasp to keep it all shut. It landed on the table with quite a thud; the bag slumped emptily with relief.

“A gift,” Sarah repeated, “to guide you through the difficult choice you must surely have started thinking of. You are certainly of an age for it, after all - and one cannot put too much thought into a courtship, as I’m sure you will agree.” Without waiting for an answer, perhaps sensing somehow that her advantage was in the wide-eyed surprise that had rendered Steven speechless, she barrelled onwards. “You may recall that I wrote you some time ago from a coven in Siberia! What I did not tell you was that I enlisted some help from the coven to find you the perfect match. Within these pages lies a compendium of eligible young vampires, ranging from fifty to seven hundred; I feared you might hesitate at a higher number. Each one consented to have their portrait drawn, and a page of self-description was provided - except in the cases they weren’t. Those portraits have been relegated to the back of the book.”

“Ma -”

“Don’t you put me off, Steven Rogers. I know your tricks by now. You could at least do me the courtesy of pretending that you were considering the options. I went to some trouble to get those portraits, you know. They didn’t appear out of thin air.”

“If you’d only listen -”

“Siberia is a lovely place, you know,” Sarah battled on. “I know how you detest the cold, but one really doesn’t feel it after a while, darling, you know how our skin is. And the wolves of the Siberian region have a truly unique tint to their blood - the coven assures me it is a flavour too sublime to grow accustomed to, and I am disinclined to disbelieve them. If you were to bond into such a group, why, you’d have the wilderness at your feet. You really ought to at least consider the chance.”

“I’m already courting someone.”

“It’s only that I don’t want you to - I beg your pardon?”

“I’m already courting someone,” Steven repeated.

“Who?”

“If you would let me,” Steven said, “I would tell you.” Sarah made an affair of closing her mouth, and Steven gestured towards Bucky. “Bucky.”

“Why - Bucky!” Sarah exclaimed, with some astonishment, and twisted around to stare at the subject of her surprise. “Bucky,” she said again, this time reproachful enough to worry him for an instant, before she continues, “You might have warned a body.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said truthfully. “I didn’t know how. Besides, I thought Steven might want -”

“Steven did want,” Steven said firmly, reaching over to touch Bucky’s hand. Sarah’s eyes lit up as she followed the movement.

“Oh, you’re dears. I’m so happy for you.” Her smile was so very happy as she leaned forward to touch her son on the shoulder, to touch where their hands are touching. Bucky’s heart fluttered, and he couldn’t be sure whether it was guilt or shame or a furtive sort of pleasure. Perhaps it was all three at once. “Tell me everything. When did you know? Why didn’t you write me?”

“I think I shall let Steven do the talking,” Bucky said, and moved to take the plates with a deftness that surprised even him. Steven shot him a narrow-eyed glare as he swept them away.

“How generous,” he said dryly, to the palpable exasperation of his mother.

“Tell me everything,” she repeated, and immediately peppered Steven with enough questions that they blurred together in Bucky’s hearing.

“I don’t know,” Steven said, sounding rather convincingly flummoxed. “It simply seemed right, that’s all.”

“When?”

“Not so long ago,” Steven said, sliding a glance over at Bucky. “Perhaps - well, a few years ago. When we first started the bakery.”

“You’re being awfully specific, aren’t you,” Sarah grumbled. “Bucky, I suppose it’s hopeless to ask whether you’ve a better memory than your partner here?”

“Perfectly hopeless,” Bucky agreed, and got a kick on the ankle for his troubles. His heart fluttered at hearing himself referred to as Steven’s partner; it was what he was, of course, under the terms of the story that the two of them had constructed, but somehow, to hear it echoed back from Sarah so effortlessly, well - it was something. If he let it, it was the sort of thing which could knock him off his feet.

“Well, you’re a good match in that regard, at least,” Sarah muttered, but she was unable to fully keep the fondness out of her voice. “Unable even to tell a decently strung-together story to your poor old mother -”

“Oh, stop it with the dramatics,” Steven said, and, like his mother, he too was unable to sound properly stern about it.

“Sometimes I think you forget I know perfectly well what vampires are capable of,” Sarah said. “We don’t simply forget things, you know.”

Steven sighs. “I know,” he said, in the tone of one who is facing down imminent defeat. Sarah settled further into her seat and perched her chin on her hands.

“Well?”

“It was just before we opened the bakery,” Steven said slowly. He didn’t sound as though he were stalling for time, but Bucky kept a hand carefully ready to upset the teapot as a distraction - just in case one was needed.

“Bucky was attempting something new with an old recipe - I think he was trying to add blood to the croissant. To make it more edible for our kind, you know.”

“I know perfectly well the culinary disposition of our kind, Steven, and I’m not here for a biology lesson.”

“Well, he’d been at it all day, and failing, because the pastry needed to be so flaky and the blood wasn’t working with it at all -”

“We’re not here for a recital of my failures, either,” Bucky added hastily. Steven grinned, looking rather convincingly as though Bucky were the thing he was most fond of in all the world. Bucky was slightly ashamed to admit that he had to turn away from the expression; he found that he felt dangerously close to forgetting his circumstances under its influence.

“No failures, Buck,” he said. “Only you were so determined to make it right. He had assured me, you know, that he was perfectly content with his baking - that he found it restful, in the wake of what he’d been through - but there was, unbeknownst even to me, a small part of myself which doubted him, until that moment he turned around and revealed himself to have been so absorbed in the work that he’d smeared blood all over his face, and not even noticed!”

Sarah sighed dramatically and clapped as though this were the denouement to a great monologue. Bucky stared numbly; the moment was true, in the broad strokes if not the finer details. He remembered the way that Steven had laughed at him, warm, had pulled him close to wipe his face. He remembered the way that the moment had stretched out between them, and then how Steven had stepped away, silent, and taken his shoulders to turn him back to the baking. He wondered what would have happened if Steven had taken his shoulders for other reasons entirely. He finds himself wishing that’s how it had happened; the recipe never had come out right.

“It all hit me, then,” Steven said. “All of a sudden. How glad I was that he was doing alright; how glad I was that he was with me; that we had found one another; that he had found something to love like making croissants. I realised,” he said, quietly, “that I would have given all I had to be looked at as though I were a piece of pastry.”

He looked at Bucky, and his eyes were searingly, startlingly honest, a perfectly marvellous act. Bucky felt utterly frozen in place, unable to say or do anything; the revelation had rendered him quite mute. He couldn’t even be sure what about it was so foreign to him, for he himself had earlier reflected that keeping their lies close to the truth would render them more palatable and easier to keep track of - only perhaps, he thought now, this was too close to the truth. And Steven was delivering it so well, when Bucky had not previously known him to be so wonderful a liar.

Deep down, he knew precisely what the problem is: that he wanted the things that Steven was saying to be true. It was a foolish hope, not helped by the loving way that Steven was gazing at him.

“Why, Steven,” said Sarah, and seemed unable to continue. Her hands fluttered; one moved towards her eye, though vampires had no tears to shed. “You say the funniest things,” she finished finally, and patted him on the hand. Then, all at once, she seemed to decide that this expression of affection was not strong enough and jumped up to round the table and pull Steven into a proper hug, one which had the son subjected to it making a desperate face at Bucky over his mother’s shoulder.

Bucky’s smile must have seemed terribly faint; at any rate, something was enough to collapse Steven’s expression from playful struggle to true concern, something that he had to mask quickly when Sarah pulled away.

“Count yourself lucky,” he said, with a rather bold wink, “that my mother doesn’t yet see fit to subject you to the same questions.”

“Yet being the crucial term,” Sarah chimed in, conspiratorial. “If you become as a second son to me in the near future, as I so hope, there may be some tolls for you alongside what I believe I may modestly term the benefits.”

“Oh,” was all that Bucky could think to say. Steven swooped to his rescue once again.

“I fear you may yet be disappointed, Mother.”

“You would be the kind to go slow,” Sarah said, but she sounded very fond.

“It isn’t as though we don’t have all the time in the world.”

“Yes, well,” Sarah sighed, apparently resigned. “Your poor old mother -”

“It’s not as though you don’t have all the time in the world, either,” said Steven, for all the world quite firm except for the flicker of amusement which lifted the corner of his mouth.

“The cruellest thing you ever did was take away my God-given right to lord my rapidly decreasing time on Earth over you,” Sarah said contemplatively, but then she followed this rather alarming statement by patting her son on the shoulder. “You take all the time you need, dear, and you too, Bucky.” She couldn’t, however, seem to resist a winking follow-up: “Only I’d rather you take it sooner rather than later.”

Before anybody was obliged to compose a witty response to this there was a banging on the door, and Steven and Bucky - as one - looked at the clock on the wall and swore, springing into action.

Sarah blinked. “You two are well-matched indeed,” she observed.

“Mother - will you be a dear and man the counter? Only for a little while,” Steven assured her hurriedly, “only for as long as it takes for Bucky and I to get everything out of the oven and into those display cases.”

“Steven, you can’t ask your mother to work on her holiday -” Bucky attempted to hiss, but was rapidly waved away and overruled by both the Rogers’ present.

“My dear Bucky,” Sarah said, “don’t be silly. I shall relish it.” She headed out to the shopfront to open the door to customers with a particular self-satisfied look in her eye that seemed, to Bucky, to spell dire consequences for any customer bold enough to take her to task for the disorganised opening.

“She truly does remind me of you, sometimes,” Bucky said as he stared after her.

“What, in that you may reliably depend upon her to work while you gawk at something else?” Steven asked pointedly from the oven.

“Don’t be pert,” Bucky muttered, but went to help. Steven reached out for him when he drew close, and ushered him out of the back door. “What -”

“This won’t take a moment - and Mother won’t hear us from two doors away,” Steven said. “Not if we speak quietly. I noticed you seemed -” He twisted his hands together, and Bucky saw that he was choosing his next words exceedingly carefully. “You didn’t seem terribly pleased,” Steve said finally, “about the anecdote I told Mother.”

“No - no, I mean, to your statement. I wasn’t displeased. It was a good choice.”

“Was it?” Something about Steven’s face seemed hopeful, and Bucky didn’t know what he was hoping for. It put him on edge.

“Yes. The closer you keep to the truth, the more credulous the story. I think -” And now it was his turn to hesitate, to pick through the endless choice of words with the greatest of care. “Perhaps it took me aback, how very good you were. Even I, knowing better, almost believed you.”

Steven’s smile, when directed at Bucky, now seemed a trifle nervous. “Almost.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, attempting to interpret that nervousness and seeing only one reason for it. “I know perfectly well where we stand. You needn’t worry about me.”

“Yes,” Steven said slowly, staring at him, and then he turned back to the door. “Shall we?”

For all the time that he’d taken to simply look at Bucky, Steven seemed to take his own suggestion now with some haste. Bucky followed a little more slowly; that sudden bereft feeling had returned, in the wake of Steven’s absence. By the time he reached the ovens Steven was already installed behind the counter, and there was no further chance to talk to him through the deluge of disgruntled morning customers.

~*~

Sarah extracted a guided tour of the city from Bucky not long after, intent on seeing how the city had changed in the thirty-something years she had been away from it. Bucky was not a particularly good candidate for this, since he had only recently installed himself and did not go out much; nevertheless, it seemed rude to deny Sarah, and so they walked. Through some combination of wit, evasion, and blatant displays of stuttering discomfort which were occasionally falsified but otherwise quite real, Bucky kept himself from giving altogether too many details about Steve’s courtship.

It was to be, alas, only one of a volley of trials that Bucky was subsequently forced to weather. Sarah’s questions would likely have been innocuous to any proper courting couple, possibly even a delight to answer - did they do anything together, did they do anything for each other, when had they begun to inhabit the same room, how did they find the lifestyle of operating a bakery? - but to Bucky they were each an individual nightmare which necessitated ever-deeper and more detailed layers of deception on his part and Steven’s. 

This would be trying enough if the questions hadn’t given Steven ideas. He’d gotten it into his head that the news of their courtship ought to be backed up by gestures more substantive than a shared sleeping space and a breast pin - though these seemed perfectly satisfactory to Bucky - and taken to springing even further gifts upon Bucky at the most unexpected moments: a book, a piece of clothing, a trinket from a nearby store or market. On one occasion he returned to the flat, his arms were overflowing with vibrant marigolds, enough to adorn the living room twice over.

It wasn’t the gifts themselves which were such a trial - Steven did, at least, have some sense of what Bucky liked and disliked - and it wasn’t having to receive them within earshot of Sarah, who was almost never out of earshot within the tiny flat and who was invariably delighted at the presentation of any gift to any person, and occasionally seemed more delighted when it was not her who acted as recipient. It wasn’t even the mild pressure that Bucky felt to reciprocate, as that was relieved easily enough with the appropriate amount of fine baking: an activity which, for its sins, provided an excellent excuse for him to confine himself in the bakery for several hours at a time. For the chance to lock himself away from what seemed to be an increasingly chaotic world, he could forgive many things.

No, the worst thing about the whole predicament was how easily Bucky slipped into believing it. Or, more precisely, how very badly he wished to believe it; and how, sometimes, when he was freshly out of excuses to bake something for Steven or otherwise compelled to spent time with him, he would find his eyes following the other vampire, find his body turned towards him as a flower to the sun, and find within himself depths of foolishness he had not previously thought himself capable of. How, on occasion, he would see Steven watching him in return, and be halfway to convincing himself of things that certainly couldn’t be real before crashing back to his senses.

The marigolds, in particular, seemed a particularly haunting gift; they were everywhere, following him from room to room, the walls and furniture positively festooned in that fiery shade of orange Bucky had once confessed to Steven was his favourite colour. There was not a place in the house from which one could not see the blooms; even when Bucky closed his eyes, the phantom impression of those soft petals burned against the insides of his eyes. He was horrifyingly fond of the things. He could never resist brushing his fingertips along their soft edges when he passed them by; if marigolds had not previously been his favourite flower, they certainly were now. He knew perfectly, painfully well that none of this was real, that none of the gifts were courting gifts - but the flowers _felt_ like one, a real, useless, extravagant one. And each time he swept a fluttering touch across one velvety petal and then another, he could feel his foolish heart softening - trying its best, under the circumstances, to dream.

~*~

Bucky did not immediately realise that anything was amiss when Steven arranged for one of his mother’s friends to come down to New York that they might see one another; it was only natural that, given their penchant for wandering, vampires knew very well the value of an opportunity to see one another. He did not even realise when Sarah’s arrangements took her out of New York for the length of a day, chalking this up to her friend’s preference.

Realisation only dawned when, after having waved his mother off, Steven immediately turned to Bucky to say, “We ought to talk.”

“We do?” Bucky asked, a little helplessly, as he followed his friend inside. Even from behind, Steven’s nod was firm and decisive.

“I flatter myself,” he said, “that I know you rather well.”

“Better than anyone else in the world, I should think.”

“So would I be correct if I said that you have not been yourself lately?” Steven asked, turning so suddenly on his heel that Bucky nearly bumped into him.

“Not myself?” he echoed. “What - why do you say that?”

Steven shrugged. “You’re quieter. You seem preoccupied.”

“I am both those things,” Bucky said, “on a normal day.”

“Bucky,” Steven said gently, “you yourself admitted that I knew you.” He looked at Bucky’s turned-away face, at his tight shoulders, and continued. “We needn’t continue with this charade if you don’t want to. I’d rather face down Mother and her horrifying book than have you unhappy.”

“Oh, no,” said Bucky, for whom that book was a source of some vexation; he couldn’t quite decide which would be worse, for Steven to sit through the ordeal and suffer throughout or for Steven to submit to the ordeal, see a portrait, and fall madly in love. “Quiet and preoccupied doesn’t mean unhappy, you know, not definitively. I’m concentrating,” he added, because Steven was quite obviously not convinced. And for good reason, when Bucky couldn’t quite bring himself to say that he wasn’t unhappy; that he was unhappy now and would only be unhappier if they ended this pantomime, this farce of a courtship. Because the unhappiness wasn’t for the reason that Steve thought; it felt unfair to drag that into this. “On how I think and behave around your mother.”

“You don’t have to, you know. I mean - my offer.”

“I knew what I was getting into,” Bucky said. “You needn’t worry about me.”

“You said that once before.”

“And I meant it then, too,” Bucky said, remembering that strange hurried interlude outside the kitchen.

Steve’s face softened as he reached out. “I’d not have you unhappy for anything in the world.”

“I know,” Bucky said, grasping that hand, revelling in it. The look on Steven’s face was fervent and true, the kind of expression which could give a body ideas. Steven meant it as a friend, he had to remind himself; as a dear friend, but no more. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Third time lucky,” Steven said, shaking Bucky’s hand and his own head all at once.

“What about you?” Bucky thought suddenly to ask. The question brought Steve up short, he could tell. “You can’t tell me it isn’t a strain on your nerves, too.”

“It’s a strain,” Steve admitted slowly. “I dislike lying to my mother.” Then he flashed a quick smile at Bucky. “But the chance to court you is quite worth the risk, and the strain.”

Bucky’s first instinct was to smile back; the quick first edges of that smile darted out from him before he could slam his expression into place. “You needn’t,” he said, solemn, “flirt when we’re alone.” Perhaps it was rude of him - certainly it was rude of him - but the truth of the matter was that there was only so much that a man could take, and Bucky could only suffer so much blurring of his self-imposed boundaries before he did something irrevocably foolish.

“Ah,” said Steven, seeming for all the world as though he were disappointed. He stepped back, looked around. “Well, you never know who’s watching.”

“If somebody was watching us there wouldn’t be any use in a flirtation anyway,” Bucky pointed out. “Given the topic of our conversation, just now.”

“You are, as always, quite right,” Steven said. He executed a stiff, small bow, and then he excused himself. Bucky stared at the vacant space which he had occupied and tried to pin down why he felt he was missing something.

~*~

Bucky’s days fell into a regular enough rhythm: he sequestered himself in the kitchen with some regularity both for commercial and courting purposes, he took turns working at the counter with Steven, and during the scant free time remaining he occupied himself with a thousand and one small hobbies which required enough of his attention to make conversation a light, easy affair. On occasion Steve would make some new gesture and Bucky would bake him some new confectionary creation in return, but he felt somehow that he had a handle on the whole affair.

Like so, the few weeks passed by easily; before he knew it, Sarah was extracting promises of long, regular letters from them both and departing, waving cheerfully as she strode off down the street. The self-assurance which accompanied immortality agreed with her; one might almost be able to describe her cheeks as flushed with the pleasure of her continued journey.

Bucky turned to Steven, quite wordless, and a little afraid that Steven was going to say something about being glad that the whole affair was over. He did not; instead he took Bucky’s arm and said, “I think that went well.”

“I think you’re right,” Bucky said. “I like your mother.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Steven said. “I’m rather fond of her too. Frightening books and all.” The book in question had been left behind, though not in a particularly pointed manner; Sarah had merely said that it was too heavy for her to continue carting around, and placed it firmly out of sight on the lowest shelf in the living room.

Somehow, through some sort of mutual agreement, neither of them mentioned the fact that their room might now be separated again; Steven even went so far as to suggest that Bucky sleep, and seemed not to find it strange that Bucky’s instinct led him to their bed before he realised there was a perfectly functional bed down the hall which was technically his and his alone. By the time he had arrived at that realisation, however, he was well enough settled in that moving seemed too much to bother with - particularly when he wanted so badly to stay.

The curious thing was that this continued on for several more weeks. Bucky continued to live out of the same room as Steven; the room which had once been his felt increasingly less so as the days flicked by. Steven didn’t seem to mind this development in the least, and indeed actively encouraged the storage and keeping of Bucky’s things in what Bucky had come to think of as their room. The only concession that Bucky made to the ending of their pretense was the return of Steven’s breast pin: he placed it quietly on the bureau one morning, ignoring the fervent protestations of his heart, and by evening it had disappeared.

On one occasion, Bucky mustered up the courage to ask, “Do you want me to move back into the other bedroom?” He was terribly afraid that the answer would be affirmative and regretted it at once when Steven levelled a surprised look at him.

“Do you want to?”

“No,” Bucky admitted - too honestly. Immediately he tried to mitigate this by adding, “That is, I’m quite alright. I only thought you might...” He trailed off with a vague gesture. Steven seemed to understand pretty well what he’d meant.

“It’s all right with me if it is with you,” he said, and his smile was a little nervous. Bucky nodded, slowly, and that nervousness seemed to fade - slowly, but surely. He could feel himself calming in response, too, the thrill over and his habitation arrangement apparently safe.

The thoughts that he’d spent so long attempting to squash down now returned, and with a vengeance. Bucky found that it was more difficult than ever to keep them down; perhaps Steven simply didn’t want to go through the trouble of moving everything back, he told himself furiously. Perhaps he had realised the convenience of having a guest room to spare. Neither of the explanations rang particularly true.

Only a few weeks ago, Bucky would have stomped down all the thoughts entirely, too cowardly to examine what they might mean. But then, only a few weeks ago, Bucky had been scared witless at the mere thought of a pretended courtship; somehow, having gotten through the experience unharmed seemed to have lent him some courage. He examined the situation determinedly, defiantly, and in so doing discovered one very important fact: that the breast pin Steven had given him, which he had placed so painfully on the bureau, had found its way back into Bucky’s possession. It now lingered under the lapel of one of his coats, a place in which nobody would see it unless they turned the collar up and searched for it.

Bucky touched the metal with soft fingers and a softer heart. This, surely, was unmistakable. He left the house that very afternoon on an errand of his own, and when he returned he draped the incriminating coat over his arm and went to find Steven.

If vampires could go pale, Bucky suspected that Steven would have managed the feat when he espied Bucky holding the coat.

“Steven,” Bucky said. “You will never guess what I found under this lapel.”

Steven hesitated, and for a moment Bucky thought that he was going to deny everything. In what could only be construed as a good sign for the future of their relationship, he did not.

“I know it,” he said instead, voice very tired. “I’m sorry.”

Somehow, Bucky had not been expecting this. “Sorry?”

Steven met Bucky’s eyes, and somehow seemed to remain oblivious to the turmoil he was causing. “I never meant for you to feel as though there was any pressure on you.”

“But,” said Bucky carefully, cautiously, hoping against hope that he wasn’t making the largest mistake of his afterlife, “What if…” He trailed off again, because the way that Steven had suddenly snapped around to look at him said all that he couldn’t. He smiled back, positively beamed, and hauled the coat off his arm - revealing the box that he was holding in the process. Steven’s eyes alighted on the thing at once, and when he met Bucky’s gaze again his entire face had been transformed.

“What…”

“A pocket watch,” Bucky said. “And a courting gift.” He smiled as Steven did, stepping forward to pin the thing in place and finding himself happily caught in a resounding embrace.

“Mother will be pleased,” said Steven, and took the chance of Bucky’s startled laughter to kiss him: the first, Bucky hoped, of many such glorious displays of affection.

**Author's Note:**

> the author is occasionally on the [twiets](https://twitter.com/layersofsilence)


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